


The names of our wounds

by kawuli



Series: We thought we lost you (Welcome back) [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: (not-everyone-dies-verse), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-03 03:05:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11523225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kawuli/pseuds/kawuli
Summary: The war is over. The country is rebuilding. They won.But just like the Games: it's never over. Or it's not over yet, anyway.Rokia, picking up the pieces.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These postwar fics are going up (at the request of a lovely anon-person on Tumblr) even though the during-the-war part isn't written yet and won't be for a while. Things it might be useful to know that aren't mentioned somewhere in the "Smiles and Promises" series: Rokia spends most of the war in District 13 repairing hovercraft, comes to the Capitol around the time it falls, and continues working fixing hovercraft because the rail grid is destroyed in a lot of places. Other than that, the details aren't important.

Rokia groans when she hears the phone ring. It’s in the office, she’s in an access panel installing new avionics after someone managed to fry half the circuitry on this hovercraft.

Yes, they destroyed most of the pilots along with most of the hovercraft when they bombed Eagle Pass, but are they letting small children fly now? Is that why every other time she lets a craft out of her sight it comes back fucked up in ways she hadn’t previously imagined were possible? The craft from 13 are sturdier, but the 13 pilots are also stingier about flying time, and 13 might not be in charge anymore but try telling that to their air command people.

This job is going to take _forever_ to track down all the short circuits and blown fuses and whatever the fuck somebody managed to do, and she does not want to crawl all the way out just to answer the phone when probably it’s another complaint about how they need people or supplies or both flown halfway around the world by yesterday and what’s the holdup?

But someone else picks it up and then yells across the hangar. “Rokia, it’s Phillips for you.”

Rokia sighs, but starts crawling out. She owes Phillips, he’s hurt and he doesn’t have anyone else, he needs her and she’ll do whatever she can… but he wants her to stop doing what she’s doing and rest, wants to baby her even though he’s the one struggling to walk on surgically repaired legs. And she can’t give him what he wants—she has a job to do, she goes to see him when she can, and there’s really nothing she can do given there’s a hospital full of doctors and nurses looking out for him already. That probably makes her a terrible person, but what the fuck else is new.

She picks up the phone in the office, takes a deep breath, and says “Hello?”

“Hi Rokia,” Phillips says, “How’re you doing?”

“I’m fine, busy as usual. What’s up?”

There’s a half-concealed sigh before he answers. “They’ve called a meeting of all the Victors, tomorrow morning. Sounds like they want to talk about where we go now that things are getting settled.”

Oh, things are getting settled, are they? News to her. “Okay,” she says, “I mean, I’ve already got a job, what’re they planning on having us all do?”

Phillips pauses. “Oh. No, I meant literally, which districts to move to.”

Rokia rolls her eyes. She can’t go back to Six, Thirteen is a disturbing fucking anthill, and her job’s here, so what’s to discuss? “I’m not planning on moving,” she says, when the pause gets a little too long for comfort. “Like I said, I’ve already got a job.”

Phillips sighs again. “Well, it might be good to see what the others are planning, anyway.” He sounds tired. He always sounds tired, these days. Rokia wonders if he’s still bitching about painkillers and how he doesn’t need them.

“What time’s the meeting?” she asks, trying to be placating. It comes out a little sharper than she meant it to.

“Nine tomorrow morning,” Phillips says. “In the old Games Complex.”

It’s creepy, the way they’ve turned the place into offices and storage and living spaces without so much as a beat in between. Okay, it’s a big building and somehow managed not to get destroyed or shot at, and they need to do this shit someplace, but really? “Okay,” Rokia says, looking up at the clock on the wall. “I’ll try to make it.”

“Thanks,” Phillips says, gruffer than usual. She didn’t realize she was annoying him that much. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Rokia,” he adds.

“See you,” she echoes, and hangs up.

It’s almost five now. If everything goes well she can finish this job tonight and crash for a few hours in the office before the meeting.

 

Rokia should know better than to tempt fate and the gods of electrical circuitry like that. When she finally crawls out for the last time, scrambles up to the cockpit to verify that everything’s working as it should, it’s already six in the morning. So either she rushes the checks, assumes everything’s fine, and sleeps for maybe 2 hours, or she does the job properly. And assuming everything’s fine is how this kind of shit gets broken in the first place, so fuck it. She goes to the machine by the office and gets it to dispense coffee after only one kick to the side. Fucking Capitol machines, this thing’s supposed to dispense 37 kinds of hot drinks but it never quite works right, while the drip coffeemaker in Sal’s shop was as old as Rokia, made _one_ kind of hot drink, and worked fine.

She takes the coffee into the cockpit with her, even though she shouldn’t, because nobody else will be in for another hour or two. Runs through the avionics checklist, twice, just because she’s tired and wants to be sure she’s got everything. But yeah, it all checks out, so she powers the thing down, crawls back through the access to make sure all the wiring’s squared away, latches down the panels, and is stepping back by eight o’clock. Enough time to shower and change into cleaner clothes.

She tries to ignore the apartment as she walks through to the bathroom, the way she always does. Fancy, ridiculous, nonsense fluff everywhere, and really she should collect all the worst shit and stuff it into a closet somewhere, but she doesn’t have time for that so she just tries to pretend it’s not there.

She should also—buy? Requisition? Acquire, anyway—some new clothes, given that what she has is what she brought from 13. And that’s 4 grey uniforms and all of them have grease stains somewhere. But that’s even more complicated than getting rid of the bullshit in the apartment so it goes on the “someday when I have time” list, which Rokia’s pretty sure would be a long list if she actually kept track of any of the things on it.

It does amuse her to show up at the door to the Games Complex with her hair wet and wearing greasy grey coveralls. It appears to amuse the guys guarding the door, but they don’t say anything, just wave her in.

Phillips is waiting in the lobby, sitting (for once, thankfully) on a chair near the elevators. He stands up when he sees her, leaning on the back of the chair and on the cane he’s been bullied into using by fed-up nurses. He looks her up and down, gives her a worried smile. “Glad you made it,” he says.

Rokia shrugs. “Managed to finish a job in time,” she says. “Guess we’ll see what these guys have by way of plans.”

Phillips nods, punches the elevator buttons. “Rokia,” he says carefully, as the doors close. “You’re working way too hard, you need to slow down.”

“Says the guy who fought for weeks to be let out of the hospital with two broken legs,” she snipes back, and that’s probably not fair and it’s definitely not nice, but _seriously_ , she’s had enough with that bullshit.

He huffs a laugh. “Fair point,” he says. “But Rokia, I’m serious.”

She shrugs again. “I’m fine, Phillips, there’s just a lot needs doing these days.”

His mouth goes tight, but he stays silent until the elevator doors open and they step out into what used to be the District Four common area and is now full of Victors, sitting and standing variously around a long table.

It’s not everyone, not even everyone who survived (and that’s a hell of a difference), but it’s a lot of people, and Phillips seems at home with them but Rokia doesn’t know these people, doesn’t want them looking at her, doesn’t care where they go, isn’t sure why she let Phillips talk her into coming. She follows him long enough to make sure he finds a chair, then fades back until she can lean against a wall and watch.

It’s odd, really—Phillips seems to think they’re a group, somehow, but what does Rokia have in common with…she digs at her memory for names, but mostly she never knew them so it’s a bit of a lost cause. Some she does recognize—Finnick, standing behind Annie with a hand on her shoulder, Johanna Mason standing, arms crossed, fingers worrying at her sleeve, Lyme from Two bent over a map talking to Phillips’ friend Brutus—but still. There’s not some grand commonality, except they all killed a bunch of kids and got fucked around by the Capitol in reward. Rokia shakes her head, goes in search of coffee.

There’s a machine in the kitchen that makes coffee without even requiring kicking, and someone’s brought snacks. Rokia’s stomach takes the opportunity to remind her she hasn’t actually eaten in who knows how long, so she snags a muffin to go with her coffee and goes back out to watch.

 

She's not surprised when it's Beetee who stands up to call things to order. She's a little impressed when all he has to say is hello and everybody shuts up. Most of them sit around the table, but Rokia's not the only one hanging back.

“We've been told we are free to leave the Capitol,” Beetee says. “In fact, while they haven’t said it outright, we are in fact being encouraged to leave. Although I doubt anyone requires much encouragement.” There's smiles and soft chuckles at that, and Rokia scowls. Fine for them, not like they've got much to do here anyway, and most of them have districts to go back to that aren't on fire.

“However,” Beetee continues, “given the residual anti-Victor sentiment, I believe it would be wise not to disperse too widely.”

There's some confused looks, because even a war isn't enough to get Beetee to stop talking like he gets bonus points for longer words.

“Speak fucking English, Beetee,” Johanna snaps from the opposite wall.

Beetee shakes his head, continues. “I think we should consolidate—” he sees Johanna’s face and pauses. “Stick together, in a few districts rather than everyone going home.”

“Oh,” Johanna says, shrugs. “Doesn't matter to me,” she adds, but her shoulders tense and she looks down.

There's a pause, as everyone thinks about it. “Makes sense to me,” Phillips says. “Six certainly isn't safe yet.”

Beetee nods. “Nor is Three.”

“We're going back to Four,” Finnick says, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Y’all are welcome to come along, but we're going home regardless.”

Tyde, sitting next to him, leans forward. “Four’s doing okay, relatively,” he says, conciliatory. “And folks are used to the Victors, they're not gonna bug us.”

Brutus and Lyme glance at each other, and then Lyme speaks up. “We’re planning to go back to Two,” she says, a little guarded.

Beetee nods. “Four and Two are sensible options,” he says, which for Beetee is effusive praise.

There's a few unhappy faces though, mostly from outliers. Sure, Four and Two are nice, but they're both Career districts, and even if Rokia was interested in moving, she wouldn't want to throw in with a bunch of Careers just because they've got nice districts.

“What about Nine?” Rokia doesn't remember the name of the old lady who speaks up. “My daughter and her kids are still there, I’m going to stay with them. And Nine’s not in too bad of shape, everything's so spread out they didn't bother trying to bomb much but the railyards.”

Beetee nods, considering. “That's true,” he says. “What do you think the response will be from the general population?”

The woman pauses for a second, probably to decipher what Beetee meant, then shrugs. “They never much cared one way or the other,” she says. “It's pretty live and let live out there, if somebody bugs you there's plenty of space to get away from ‘em.”

Someone chuckles at that. “I wouldn't mind coming with you, Cora,” he says.

“Why Angus, you're too kind,” Cora drawls back, smiling a little.

“Oughta get some guys from 10 in there anyway, y'all could get cattle grazing on all that rye and clover you got in winter.”

“Oh, so you guys are gonna run cattle out on our fields, then? Better keep ‘em out of the wheat.”

“Cora, I'm telling you you can graze that stuff fine, my granddaddy did it—”

“Guys,” someone snaps. “I don't know what the hell you're talking about.”

Cora and Angus look up, smiling. “Sorry,” Cora says. “Point being, you’d all be welcome to come to Nine.”

Beetee looks around the table. “Two, Four, and Nine then,” he says. “Any objections?”

Everyone looks around, but nobody complains. “Then those of us from other districts will decide where to go, and we can begin arranging transportation. Thank you all.”

 

Things start breaking up, a few people clustering around the Fours, coming up to Cora. Phillips gets up and comes to stand next to Rokia, watching the room. “Where do you want to go?” He asks.

“I told you, I got a job here,” she tries not to snap, but what is his problem with her doing her fucking job?

“Rokia, you heard Beetee, they want us out of the Capitol.”

Rokia shrugs. “Soon as they stop needing me, I'll go. Not till then.”

She glances over at Phillips. He's looking out at the room, mouth pinched tight. “I'll stay with you, then,” he says.

“Why the fuck would you do that?” Rokia snaps, it's out before she can pull it back, tone it down. Why is it so hard to be civil to people these days? Not like people were any less annoying before. She's just out of patience, apparently.

“I'm your mentor,” Phillips says, sounding hurt. “It's my job to look out for you.”

Rokia clamps down on any snap answer she could give to that. Her jaw twinges. She takes a deep breath, lets it out. “You don't have to do that,” she says. “I'm fine on my own. Anyway, you'll go nuts stuck here with nothing to do.”

Phillips sighs. “Well, we don't have to decide today,” he says. “Will you at least think about it?”

“Fine,” Rokia says. “Sure, I'll think about it.”

She looks over again. Phillips’ knuckles are white on his cane, he's standing here and he's been sitting in an uncomfortable chair and he probably fucking walked here to prove some idiotic point, and he's in pain.

“C’mon,” Rokia says. “Let's get you back to the hospital before the nurses decide you've run away and send someone to haul your ass back.”

That gets a little bit of a smile. Good.

There isn't a car outside, which means Phillips probably did walk, and he starts down the road without pausing, moving slow, jerky, breath coming short. Fucking stubborn asshole.

“Let me call for a car,” Rokia says. “It's a ways to walk.”

Phillips stops, straightens, scowls. Then sighs. “Fine,” he says, with bad grace, and Rokia pulls out her phone.

The hospital receptionist laughs when she hears the request. “Oh good, somebody managed to talk some sense into him,” she says. “Car’s on its way.”

“I don't think the hospital is used to dealing with stubborn Sixes,” Rokia says when she hangs up. That gets another tight little smile.

“Takes one to know one,” Phillips says, stepping back to lean against the warm brick of the building.

The car gets there a couple minutes later. Rokia helps Phillips in, turns to head back to the shop.

“Rokia,” Phillips says. Rokia turns. “Go home, get some rest,” he says. “Please.”

Rokia bits her lip. “Yeah alright,” she says. “I'll come by tomorrow, okay?”

Phillips nods. “Take care,” he says.

“Will do.” Rokia shuts the door and walks away.

 

She goes to the shop first, because yes okay she told Phillips but she has to check first to see what's scheduled, make sure someone's picking up the craft she finished with this morning, make sure there's nothing urgent. There's a message on her desk to call the transportation office, where she gets an earful about priorities and fleet downtime and the need to ensure supplies are getting out to the agricultural districts in time for planting and equipment to the crews working on the mess of the rail grid. Rokia wonders if this is what Sal had to deal with, if that's why he was always so pissy after getting off the phone with people.

If he were here, he'd know what to do. He'd know how to keep stuff moving through faster, how to allocate people and materials and get everything done. He'd be better at this. But he's gone, because Snow wanted to punish her, and she ran away too quick for him to do anything to her directly. He's not here, so Rokia will have to do it herself. Starting with telling the people on the phone that they're doing the best they can, refraining from bitching that she spent the whole night here trying to get as much done as she could, that they can come down here and see for themselves why shit takes a while.

And then the guys working on the next craft need a spare part that doesn't exist, and Rokia spends an hour tracking down the specs in the old factory database, another two hours turning that into a part file for the CNC, and an hour and a half doing busywork while the machine runs because if she sits down she's going to fall asleep and she needs to check the thing once it comes out.

She needs to find someone else who can make part files and work the CNC, but there never were many, between 3 and 6, and both those districts are so fucked even communication is hard, much less finding people with unusual and specific skills.

Finally, she cleans off the coupling and hands it off, and it’s the middle of the day but she is not going to make it until anything like a reasonable bedtime.Oh well, it's not like she has a sleep schedule to speak of, hasn't since she got to District Thirteen with its 24-hour fluorescent lights. Just another thing Phillips likes to sigh at her about.

It's four blocks to her house. It feels like four miles, and she thinks about skipping it and just crashing in the office, but she doesn't want the guys the to rat her out to Phillips, doesn't want another lecture about working too hard, so she goes home. Crawls into bed in her work clothes and falls asleep.

 

Phillips calls the next morning. She’s been in the shop since she woke up in the middle of the night, trying to figure out why fuel isn’t getting through the intake system and into the engine. She has her phone with her for once, the sound cuts through the silence and she jumps, bangs her head against the scaffolding and curses while she fishes it out of her pocket.

“Hello?” she says, rubbing her head.

“Hi Rokia,” Phillips says. “Do you want to come over for breakfast, we could talk about the relocation?”

She closes her eyes. No, no she does not want to go, does not want to talk, doesn’t see the fucking point, but if she doesn’t go Phillips will be hurt, so she kind of fucking has to. “Alright,” she says, trying not to snap it out. “I’ll be over in a bit.”

“Great,” Phillips says. “See you soon.”

Rokia sighs, heads out. The sun’s out, it’s painfully bright, getting warm. Rokia walks quickly, head down, and nobody bothers her. She’s only been recognized twice, both times by former… clients, and at least now she can ignore them and keep walking. Neither one decided to follow, and no wonder. They’re used to her prepped and dressed up and polished, and these days she wears baggy grey coveralls and has shop grease embedded in her calluses and under her nails. Not exactly anyone’s fantasy.

But today, as usual, she gets all the way to the hospital without much more than a few uncurious looks. Well, until she gets to Phillips’ room and he looks her over like he’s checking her for loose wires. “Hi Phillips,” she says, shaking off the tension from the walk over and smiling for him. “How’re you doing?”

Phillips’ eyes narrow a little but he sounds like his usual self. “I’m fine,” he says. He’s sitting at the table, a pile of papers in front of him, and Rokia wonders where he got them, what work he’s managed to find to keep himself busy. “Come sit.”

Rokia sits at the chair across from him, shifts sideways to lean against the wall. “You decide where you want to go?” she asks, because if she doesn’t point him some direction, Phillips will end up talking about her.

He leans back and watches her. “Cora’d like me to come to Nine,” he says. “You could learn to fix tractors.”

Rokia doesn’t roll her eyes. “Phillips, I’m sure there’s plenty of people there who know how to fix tractors,” she says. “I told you already, I’m staying here.”

“It’s dangerous,” Phillips says. “They’d like us out, the Victors are too visible a symbol of the old regime.”

“How am I a symbol of anything in a machine shop?” Rokia asks. “Not like people are coming by to take pictures.”

“You can’t stay there _all_ the time, Rokia,” Phillips says. “There’s some people who’d like to shoot you for working for Snow, some people’d like to shoot you for working for Coin, some people’d just like to shoot you because there’s all these guns floating around and why not?” He pauses, stares at her until she looks up and meets his eyes. “You need to be safe, Rokia. The rest comes after that.”

Rokia chews at her lip. “I can’t go,” she says. “I’ll be careful.”

Phillips sighs. Looks at her again. “Rokia, if it’s about Allie and Kadi, I don’t—you can look from Nine, too.”

“They got data links in Nine now?” Rokia snaps. “Databases are here, what’s left of ‘em.”

“I’m sure they’ll notify you if—“

“They’re not using their real names. They’re nobody knows where, with nobody knows who, they’re too young for the Reaping so there’s no DNA on file, and the only thing I know is they were supposed to be up in North Six, where there hasn’t been train service for months, all through the damn winter. They’re not just gonna _turn up._ ” Rokia stops there. Crosses her arms over her chest and glares at Phillips.

“What can you do from here, then?” he asks, quietly.

“Damn sure more than I can do from some cornfield,” Rokia shoots back. “Besides which, there’s maybe three shops that can machine spare parts from scratch and this is the only one that’s not in Six. I’m the only one here who can generate partfiles _and_ get the shit machined and installed. It’ll be slow as shit if they have to call over to Three anytime they need a file for the CNC and half the time it’ll be screwed up somehow because of some damn stupid thing the Threes don’t think to check.”

Phillips sighs. “Then I’m staying here with you,” he says.

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter,” Rokia says. “And you said it yourself, it’s not safe to be wandering around here. They want you in Nine, you should go.”

“Rokia,” he says, voice low. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”

“I’m _fine,_ Phillips,” Rokia says.

He just looks at her. Dammit, she doesn’t need this. “I’ve got work to do,” Rokia says. “See you later?”

Phillips sighs again. “Alright, Rokia,” he says. “I’ll see you later.”

 

She walks back to the shop annoyed and tense. Her datapad is in the office, and she snatches it up before getting back to mysterious fuel blockages. Pulls up the population database, updated again last night, checks for Allie and Kadi despite what she told Phillips, checks for grandma because that’d at least be something, but nothing comes up. No trace since Reaping Day 75.

Of course there isn’t, there shouldn’t be, if there were it’d mean something bad, no news means the possibility of good news someday, and Six is still too dangerous for a proper census, even if there were the people and the money to do one.

At least here she can keep looking.

She drops the datapad onto the table and goes back to work.

 

Phillips leaves a week later, after two more halfhearted attempts to get her to come along, semi-serious offers to stay. Beetee comes by once, says he’s going to Two and she should come along. Lyme even comes, stands by the door and watches until Rokia notices her and goes to see what she wants. “You could stay with me for a bit,” Lyme says, like it’s no big deal. “Two’s not far from here.”

Rokia shrugs. Lyme is…complicated. Rokia’s pretty sure she can trust her, but she’s never managed to talk to Lyme just normally. It’s always been an emergency fallback, and in the clear daylight and hum of the shop it’s embarrassing to think about falling asleep on Lyme’s lap on the roof of the Games Center or play-fighting with sticks when Rokia was too wound up to be still. And all that’s over, anyway, no more Games, no more…other stuff, the Twos are going home, apparently taking Beetee with them, and Rokia’s staying here.

“Thanks,” Rokia says, shrugging. “But there’s a lot to do here.”

Lyme nods, glancing around and looking back at Rokia with a look that’s less obviously appraising than Phillips but that’s just as clearly taking in everything. “Okay. Offer’s open if you change your mind.”

Rokia nods. “Sure thing,” she says.

Lyme nods again, turns and disappears.

 

And that’s the end of it.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time they try to bring a cargo train in from Seven, the track blows, the train derails, and two crewmembers are killed.

Rokia calls Beetee and they spend two days digging through encrypted databases to find the rest of the traps, encircling the Capitol and triggered by some idiot as the regime was falling. They’re just lucky they’ve been using the line the first soldiers from Thirteen cleared up to now, but they can’t expect to keep bringing everything in that way.

Rokia glares at the map for an hour and the hovercraft logs for another hour before realizing she’s going to have to find a ground-based solution. They’re overstretched already, flying cargo and people to all the places the rail lines were destroyed. Getting the rail lines repaired is still a huge job, since the same brilliant thinkers who sabotaged their own supply lines when it became clear they were going down also blew up half of district Six when it became clear the rebels were going to take it. They still haven’t got communication lines back up to the mining towns—and Rokia slams the brakes on that line of thought and turns back to the map.

They can’t get out there on the rail lines themselves, their location information is sketchy and she doesn’t want to find the traps by blowing them up. The access roads haven’t been maintained well and she’s not sure whether the weight of a truck would set off explosives. Finally Rokia flips through her contacts and finds one she hasn’t used in years. The phone number doesn’t connect but she’s got an address, so she walks over.

The shop is more or less intact, but the manager looks nervous when she walks in.

“Hi Aulus, how’s business?” Rokia asks, with a wry grin.

The manager laughs at that. “Well, it’s pretty much shit.”

“So you won’t mind if I borrow one of those all-terrain bikes we put together in what was it? 73?”

He looks at her, eyebrows raised. “Uh, I think we’ve got a couple, yeah, but the boss…”

Rokia glares. “Your boss owes me,” she says, voice flat.

He bites his lip, glancing around. “Look, I—I didn’t know about…” he waves a hand, won’t meet Rokia’s eyes. Funny, she thinks, how squeamish everyone in the Capitol has suddenly become.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rokia says, “Just let me borrow one of the bikes. We’ll even make up some official paperwork about contributing to reconstruction or something if it’ll make you feel better.”

The man nods, finally, and motions her to follow him. Rokia grins when she sees the bikes, lined up against the wall.

“You’re going to have trouble getting fuel,” he says, “they’re rationing it pretty strictly.”

Rokia shrugs. There’s tanks of fuel behind her shop, and the paperwork goes through an office nearby. “Just give me a enough to get home with.”

He goes to a barrel in the corner and pumps it out. That, Rokia pays for.

 

Rokia's on her way back when she realizes that it’s really not a good idea to go tearing out of the Capitol to disarm explosives by herself. Sure, she could probably figure it out on the phone with Beetee, but that’s assuming there’s phone service out where they are (doubtful) and that there aren’t die-hards out in the woods who’d be interested in shooting her (possible). That means the Peacekeepers, or whatever they’re calling themselves these days. She groans and turns to head for their barracks.

She pulls up outside, gets off reluctantly and locks the bike. The guards look at her, a little wide-eyed, when she walks up.

“I need to talk to whoever’s in charge,” she says.

They exchange glances and then one nods. “I’ll take you up to see Marius”

Marius is sitting at a desk covered in paperwork, talking on the phone to someone. He looks up at her, and Rokia can see the moment when he recognizes her, when his expression shifts from annoyance at the interruption to recognition and confusion.

“What can I do for you, Rokia?” he asks.

“I need Peacekeeper support for a bomb disposal mission in the borderlands near here.”

Marius’s eyebrow twitches up and he stops fidgeting with his paperwork.

“There are explosives on a bunch of the cargo rail lines and we need them off so we can bring supplies in. I know the locations, more or less, but I’m not an explosives expert and there may be people watching those lines, I don’t know. It’d be good to have some backup.”

Marius is giving her a look she’s long since become accustomed to—the one that says “I hear what you’re saying but are you sure it’s really you saying it?”

“I guess this kind of request would normally come from the Minister of Transportation, but honestly, I don’t know who that is,” Rokia continues.

Marius nods. “Okay,” he says, “I know how it is right now. We don’t have free transport until…” he sifts through his papers again, until Rokia cuts in.

“I can provide transportation,” she says, “I know a guy who makes motorcycles.”

“Motorcycles.” Marius’s voice is deadpan but the corner of his mouth is twitching, just slightly.

“Yeah, I know it’s a little unconventional but it really is the best way, they’re light, they won’t accidentally set something off, and the maintenance roads aren’t in the best of shape.”

Marius nods. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Can you come back tomorrow?”

Rokia nods. She wants to leave now, immediately, but tomorrow will do.

 

When Rokia goes back the next day there are two ex-Peacekeepers in Marius’s office, waiting for her. Marius introduces them as Dash and Selene, who are apparently a demolitions expert and a sniper. Rokia nods hello.

“You guys know how to drive a motorcycle?” Rokia asks.

“Nope,” Selene says, grinning, “but we’ll learn.”

Rokia smiles back before she notices what she’s doing. They’re young, both of them, and Selene is obviously Two, Career training in her stance. Dash she doesn’t place right away, but it’s not as though she knows much about the Peackeepers.

“OK,” Rokia says, “I’ll have the guys at the shops bring the bikes by and we can do some trial runs and then head out.”

“Hold on a minute,” Marius says. “I need to know where you’re going and what you’re planning.”

Right. Rokia isn’t used to briefing anyone lately, never quite sure who if anyone she’s supposed to be reporting to. She pulls her datapad out and sets it on Marius’ desk, projecting the rail system map onto the wall.

She walks through the top priority lines, explains the little they know about how the devices are set up. Dash asks about that part, Selene asks about terrain, Marius watches quietly until they’ve planned out the day’s work, then agrees to it. Not so bad, as these things go.

Selene’s face lights up when Aulus shows up with the bikes. Rokia goes over the basics: clutch, brakes, shifting, and they do loops in the parking lot until Selene and Dash can start without stalling or sending the bikes racing ahead. They’re low-powered dirt bikes, which makes it easier—the first time Rokia rode one of Aulus’ racing bikes it had nearly flown out from under her. They’re not going for speed, so Rokia figures they’ll survive on the access roads.

 

Rokia leads the way out of town, stopping at the gates for the two Peacekeepers to show their identification. Once they’re on the access road Rokia slows down to let Selene go first, so she can set the pace. She’s surprised when Selene doesn’t slow down at all, taking the curves and potholes easily. Dash is a ways behind when they get to the first location Rokia’s marked on her map. They pull over and Selene starts looking around, scouting in circles from the spot where Rokia’s found the explosives, settled into the ties just under the rails. Selene is all business now, serious and straight-faced as she watches the woods. When Dash pulls up he comes over to Rokia and pulls out his kit, just as solemn as he disconnects the pressure plate from the explosives and moves them away from the track. Once everything’s set he calls Selene over.

“I’m going to blow these and then we should take off, because if there’s anyone around they’re going to know exactly where we are.”

Selene nods, hand on her holster as they get the bikes ready to move. Then Dash blows the explosives and they take off.

They break for lunch in a clearing, pulling out field rations and relaxing in the grass. It’s warm in the sun, and Selene pulls off her jacket and sets her pistol on top of it. Rokia’s eyes drift toward the gun. It looks like the standard Peacekeeper-issue, nicer than the ones they made her learn to fire in 13.

Selene glances at her and asks, “Do you know how to shoot?”

Rokia breathes in. “Sure,” she says, trying for nonchalant and missing, “they made us learn in Thirteen.” And that’s a mistake to say because her stupid brain is full of tripwires and she can feel the shock of the recoil in her shoulders and smell gunpowder and she bites her lip and digs her fingernails into the skin of her wrists but it doesn’t stop the images behind her eyes. Cursing to herself, she gets up, shoots Selene a crooked smile by way of apology and walks over to her bag, leaning against her bike. She pulls out a cigarette and lights it, letting the smoke burn away the metallic tang in her mouth. It’s a dirty Six habit and she shouldn’t be doing it, but the long slow drags calm her down and it’s one of the few things that’s got no association with either the Capitol or the war.

She digs through the bag again and pulls out a bagful of tools. She’s got the clutch housing off and the tension adjusted when she notices Selene again, walking up in front of her, the bike between the two of them. She’s holding herself casual but Rokia’s got enough public experience to know it’s an act. It’s not by accident Selene’s keeping her distance, either, but Rokia’s ability to be embarrassed has taken a hell of a hit in the last five years so she just smiles at Selene instead of worrying about it.

“What’re you doing?” Selene asks, and apparently they’re going to just ignore that minor freakout, which is fine with Rokia.

“Adjusting the clutch tension. With new bikes the cables stretch a little, you get play in it.” Usually you wait a lot longer before you bother adjusting it, too, but Rokia’s going to plead extenuating circumstances.

“Can you show me how?” Selene asks.

Rokia looks up, sharp. But Selene’s not just saying it to be nice, she actually looks excited. “Sure,” Rokia says, “I’m about done here but I’ll show you on one of the others.” She fits the coverplate back on and they move to Dash’s bike. Dash comes over and watches while Rokia shows Selene what she’s doing on his bike, while Selene does it herself for her own bike. And by the time they’ve made it through all of that Rokia is almost relaxed.

 

When they get all the tracks cleared the sun’s getting low. Rokia’s leading the way back to the Capitol when Selene races past her, throttle wide open. Okay, then, Rokia thinks, and leans forward, weaving around the potholes on the dirt road. Selene’s fast and reckless but Rokia knows the bike and before long Selene has to slow down to navigate a particularly bad section and Rokia slips past. She leans into the curves, enjoying the wind and the noise and the focus. Selene’s not far behind, but Rokia beats her to the city checkpoint. She flips up her visor when Selene pulls in, and Selene’s grin splits her face, her eyes are wide and cheeks flushed and Rokia laughs.

“Having fun?” she asks.

“Oh yeah,” Selene says, “you sure there aren’t more tracks to disarm?”

Rokia pretends to think about it. “Well…” she says, “we maybe ought to just check the condition of some of the others. Could’ve been some damage, you know.”

Selene laughs. “Yeah,” she says, “you can’t be too careful.”

Dash pulls up then, looks between the two of them and shakes his head. “What was that?” he asks, and he’s smiling enough that Rokia doesn’t think he’s actually mad, but he doesn’t look excited either. 

When they get back to the Peacekeeper barracks Selene pulls out a piece of paper and scribbles her number.

“Here,” she says, handing it to Rokia, “give me a call sometime and we’ll go check those other lines.”

Rokia pockets it. “Sure thing,” she says, and waves to Dash and Selene as she heads back.

 

The next week is packed full of minor catastrophes, but finally a series of meetings with the new government leaves Rokia irritable and needing a break. Everything in her office, everything in the shop, it all reminds her of someone and she can’t get out of her own head. She paces in her office for a while, enters Selene’s number into her phone, glares at it, and finally punches the call button before she can talk herself out of it.

Selene picks up. “Hello?”

“Hi, um, Selene? This is Rokia.” Who talks on the phone to important people about work stuff several times per day but apparently gets nervous calling people to go have fun.

“Rokia!” Selene sounds genuinely pleased, and Rokia relaxes a little. “Please tell me you want to take the bikes out again.”

Rokia smiles and takes a deep breath. “Yeah, actually, I do. Are you free?”

Selene hums over the phone. “I could get free. Gimme an hour?”

Rokia was half-expecting Selene to brush her off, and definitely not expecting her to be able to go right away. “Perfect. I’ll stop by.”

She leaves the helmet behind. She wants the wind in her face and the smells of the sagebrush and pine trees and if she’s managed to survive an Arena and a war she’s not going to die in a fucking motorcycle crash.

When Rokia pulls up to the barracks, Selene’s waiting for her, and they don’t stop to say more than quick hellos before heading out. They do actually check one of the railroad lines, racing out along the access road until they crest the top of the ridge and as if planned they both slow to a stop. The mountains stretch out towards Two and the sun’s setting behind them and Rokia’s breathing hard but the knot in her stomach is gone.

They ride back slower, leapfrogging each other on straightaways and leaning into turns and by the time Rokia gets home it’s dark. Her datapad flashes with messages but she ignores it and goes to sleep.

* * *

 

Rokia’s surprised when Selene calls. She maybe shouldn't be, but it's been a long time since she had anyone who'd call her for something other than work.

“Hi Rokia,” Selene says, casual. “I’ve got a day off tomorrow, do you want to go riding?”

Yes. Absolutely. Get her the fuck out of this city. Except she promised she'd finish the repairs she's working on by tomorrow, so… “Afternoon could work,” Rokia says. “I got some shit to get done first.”

“Sounds great,” Selene says. “I can stop by around one, if that works?”

Rokia thinks. “Yeah, should be good.”

“See you tomorrow,” Selene says.

Rokia hangs up and looks back at the hovercraft. Yeah, one should be doable. She quits a little after midnight, because for once things are actually going pretty smoothly, curls up on the battered office couch so people coming in will wake her up, and falls asleep.

Worrying about sleeping in is stupid, of course, because she's awake before six, fragments of dreams dissolving as soon as she opens her eyes, leaving nothing but the sick feeling in her stomach and the sore jaw she forces to unclench.

Her eyes are dry and burning, headache grumbling low against her skull. She wants to sleep. But when she tries, she just ends up antsy and miserable, so she drags herself up.

This is why there's no damn point going back to her apartment, because now she can just walk out and get to work, without having to brave early morning streets and who knows what crazy people are out today. She kicks the coffee machine, takes the cup it finally gives up, and gets to work.

 

When Selene gets there Rokia’s already moved on to a new job, and part of her wants to beg off, stay here and finish. But no, Selene’s grinning, practically vibrating with anticipation, and it'll be fun to get out.

“I found something,” Selene says, as they walk out. “There's an old lookout up on the ridge, hasn't been used in years. I think there’ll still be a road.”

Rokia feels her shoulders start to relax. “That sounds like fun,” she says, as they get to the bikes. “Lead on.”

She follows Selene out of the city, along one of the access roads they've used for rail line checks, until Selene slows down, glancing to her right, studying the underbrush. Sure enough, there's a track heading uphill. Half overgrown and almost invisible but there.

And this is why Selene’s fun, because even though she's gorgeous and put together she charges up this path regardless of the branches that reach out and snag in her jacket and pants.

It opens up as they get higher, grass and bushes giving way to scrub and rocks, and the trail’s easy enough to follow. So Selene speeds up, and Rokia matches pace, and they fly up the switchbacks, leaning into the curves. The air’s getting colder too, sharp against Rokia’s cheeks and hands.

Even as fast as they're going it takes an hour to get up to the decrepit buildings. Rock and concrete, narrow windows, a rusting fence around the whole thing— it was clearly military, but it's turning into little more than a pile of rubble. Selene pulls up outside a gate, secured with a rusty chain and padlock. She hops down, and Rokia follows.

Selene grabs the padlock. “This is rusted shut,” she says, rattling it. “Think you can make it over?”

Rokia snorts. “This? Of course.”

Selene gives her a sharp grin. “Excellent,” she says, scrambles up and drops down on the other side.

Rokia isn't as graceful, but she makes it without much trouble. Selene’s moved on ahead, ducking into a mostly intact doorway. There's stairs, and on her own Rokia wouldn't trust them not to crumble, but with Selene there she's not about to act chicken. She starts up, and Selene follows, up to a rooftop that overlooks the Capitol.

There's no weapons here, but Rokia can see signs from where they would've been. Selene comes up beside her, goes to lean on the edge of the roof, then thinks better of it. “Nice view,” Rokia says.

Selene looks thoughtful, sounds distracted when she says “Yeah, it is, isn't it?” Then she shrugs, looks over at Rokia. “Fun ride up here, too.”

Rokia smiles. “For sure,” she says.

It doesn't take too long for Rokia to start getting cold. Selene notices her shivering, says “C’mon, let’s head back.”

Rokia's grateful for the increasing temperature as they drop back down out of the mountains. The sun’s getting low when they stop at the checkpoint into the city. Selene looks over at her, speculative. “You want to grab something to eat?” she asks, in her easy, casual tone.

Rokia freezes for a second, but there's really no reason to be worried about it. “Sure,” she says. “I’ll follow you.”

Selene looks pleased, kicks the starter and heads out into Capitol streets.

They don't head for the center, the Games Complex and the fancy spots Rokia knows from before, and that's a relief. No, they go over near the cargo terminal and the Peacekeepers barracks, and Selene pulls in in front of a scruffy looking building that wouldn't look out of place in the nicer parts of Six.

“Look okay?” Selene asks, still casual but watching carefully.

“Sure,” Rokia says, and Selene nods and leads the way in.

There's a few guys at the bar, watching something on the TV, tables scattered around. Selene picks a spot in the back corner, out of the way, and waves a hand toward the bartender as she slides in. Rokia’s facing the room, looks around. It looks… comfortable.

“I didn't know they had spots like this in the Capitol,” she says.

Selene smiles. “Yeah, a friend showed me this place,” she says. Then she glances away, looks relieved to see the bartender coming over.

“You want a beer?” Selene asks. “I'm buying.”

Rokia shrugs. “Sure.”

“Hey,” Selene greets the bartender. “Bring us a couple beers, and what’ve you got for food?”

“We got burgers again finally, looks like they've got meat shipments coming in,” he says.

Selene glances over at Rokia, who nods. “Sure, two of those, too.”

The guy nods, walks away.

“You're welcome,” Rokia says. Selene looks confused. “We helped get that track on line,” Rokia says. “It's through flat desert, mostly, so not too many blown up bridges and what have you, that made it easier.”

The bartender brings their beers and Selene tilts hers toward Rokia. “Thanks,”she says, “here's to getting shit fixed for once.”

Rokia smiles at that, drinks. It's been a while since she did anything like this. Sitting in a dimly lit bar, hanging out with a friend, or something like. Matt’s probably the last person she just… got a beer with, and that’d be at least a year ago now.

She spins the cold glass between her palms, looks up at Selene. “Anything exciting happening out your way?” She asks. “Assuming it's not top secret.”

Selene laughs, runs a hand over her head, tucking back stray hairs. “Nah, not so much. I was down in Two trying to see if there's anything to salvage from the old Academy,” she says, a little wary.

Because most district folks aren't exactly happy about anything to do with Peacekeepers, Rokia assumes. But hey, new world, new rules, and Rokia finds she doesn't really have the space to care about that particular grudge. “Find much?” She asks, sipping at her drink.

Selene shrugs. “Some. And then Dash blew up the rest so nobody’d get ideas about going looking for who knows what in there.”

Rokia raises an eyebrow. “Dash?” She asks, and she meant it perfectly innocently, but Selene freezes, just slightly, so now she's curious.

“My partner, remember? The demolitions guy?”

“Oh, sure,” Rokia says. Grins. “Didn't see much of him, he was usually a good ways behind.”

Selene laughs, sits back against the seat. “Yeah, he said he wasn't going to race a vehicle he just learned to ride that day.”

“Pfff, that's a lousy excuse,” Rokia says. “First time I rode one was at an event, I had to race. And those bikes were way faster, too.”

Selene’s still smiling, but doesn't say anything. Everyone's so careful these days. “I didn't win that time,” Rokia goes on, “but by the next time they brought me around I did a hell of a lot better.”

Selene relaxes a little. “Man, wish I'd seen that, sounds fun.”

Rokia shrugs. “Would've been… 72? Maybe 73?”

Selene glances toward the bar. “I'd have been at the Academy probably,” she says, “not so much gossip channels there.”

She glances up like she's worried Rokia will be offended, but if that kind of thing bothered her Rokia’d never leave the house. (You don't leave the house much, the ghost of Phillips’ nagging voice reminds her. She ignores it.)

“I think that was on the sports channel,” Rokia says, loftily. “Much classier.”

“Oh, well in that case…” Selene starts, and is interrupted by their food.

It smells amazing. There hasn't been much meat around, mostly slightly-odd fakes or mixes of actual meat with who knows what fillers.

“Holy shit, this is actual dead cow,” Selene says, lifting up the bun. “I will buy you as much beer as you want for making this happen.”

Rokia laughs. “You're too kind,” she says, in a fancy accent, lifting her glass.

They don't talk much after that, because the food is good, and suddenly Rokia is starving. Selene finishes first, even so, leans back to drain her beer and hum in satisfaction.

“Oh man,” Rokia says, once she's done. “I forgot how good actual food tastes.”

Selene laughs. When the guy comes to pick up the plates she nods toward Rokia’s empty glass. “One more?”

Rokia shrugs. “Sure, I don't have to be back at the shop.”

Selene glances at the clock. “Do you usually work late shift?” she asks.

Rokia laughs, probably harder than she should. “I work all the shifts,” she says, and that's not quite right. “Well, whichever I need to. Just depends what we've got going on.”

Their beers show up then. “They're trying to get our schedules less fucked,” Selene says, settling back in. “I'm not sure what it'll end up being but right now it's about like that for us too.”

“Well, turns out when you blow up a whole fucking country, takes a while to put shit back together,” Rokia says, and it's a little bit joking and a lot not really at all, and Selene seems to get that too, one corner of her mouth curling in what isn't quite a smile.

“No kidding,” she says. “And then everybody thinks they know what’s best and…” she rolls her eyes.

“Oh yes,” Rokia says. “‘But why isn't that hovercraft fixed, I thought it just needed the fuel pump replaced?’” she rolls her eyes. “Because there's no fucking spare parts so we have to machine them one at a time,” she looks over at Selene, shrugs. “You wouldn't think mechanic work would get so damn political, and yet…” she trails off. Probably she should watch her mouth, but it's nice to say out loud to somebody.

Selene’s just shaking her head. “I mean, of course the Peacekeepers are political, or whatever they decide to call us now, but you can't take orders from everybody.”

“And yet,” Rokia guesses.

“Everybody thinks they should be giving them.” Selene finishes. “Yeah.”

They're quiet after that. Maybe Selene’s also thinking that's about as far down that road as they should go, even if Snow’s bugs aren't picking everything up anymore.

Something comes up on the TV about the Victor relocation, someone down in Four talking to people there.

Selene turns to look at the screen, looks back. “You didn't want to go lie on a beach out there?” She asks.

Rokia snorts. “Sure,” she says. “I think I'd get bored after about, oh, maybe an hour.”

Selene laughs at that, the tension Rokia’d only half noticed ratchets down. “Oh, me too,” Selene says. “It'd be fine to go visit or something, I guess.”

Rokia shrugs. Visiting other districts is still a pretty foreign concept, something for the Victory Tour. “Phillips wanted me to go to Nine,” she starts, then pauses, not sure if Selene knows who Phillips is. But Selene just looks incredulous.

“What the hell would you do in Nine?” she asks.

“He said I should learn to fix tractors,” Rokia says, trying to hide her grin with her glass.

Selene bursts out laughing. “I'm sorry,” she says, “just, what on earth?”

Rokia's laughing now, too, shakes her head. “Right?” She says, “can't you just imagine me, with, I don't know, the straw hat and overalls or whatever?”

Selene had almost stopped laughing, but that gets her started again. “Oh no,” she says. “The overalls and the hat and the pitchfork over your shoulder, you'd be a propo for the new Panem.”

“Victors tilling the soil,” Rokia continues, imitating Plutarch. “Working in harmony.”

Selene rolls her eyes. “And I thought the old ones were bad,” she says.

Rokia just shakes her head, drains her glass. Selene’s is already empty. “I should probably quit,” Rokia says, “before it gets too hard to ride home.”

Selene nods. “Probably smart,” she says, gets up. She stops at the counter, refuses to let Rokia pay for anything, and they walk out.

Rokia digs in her jacket pocket, finds the half pack of cigarettes she stashed there. She pulls one out, just to complete the illusion of a night out in District Six. Selene waits while she lights it and leans against the wall. “You don't have to wait,” Rokia says. “I can find my way out of here.”

Selene shrugs, perches half on her bike, one leg up. “No rush,” she says.

The lights are coming on. They're on a little rise, and Rokia can see down to the center of town, the Games Complex still rising up towards the sky.

“What're they calling the old Games Complex?” Rokia asks, suddenly curious. “Please tell me it's not ‘the hall of the people’ or some shit.”

Selene snorts. “I’m not sure, actually,” she says. “But you should totally suggest that, I'm sure they'd love it.”

Rokia shakes her head. “Weird world,” she says.

“No kidding,” Selene responds with feeling. “Kinda crazy still.”

Rokia finishes her cigarette, grinds it out under her heel, kicks it into the gutter. It's already half full of random shit, a little more won't hurt.

Selene straightens, climbs onto the bike properly. Rokia gets hers started, and they head out. Selene peels away before long, heading toward the barracks. Rokia rides home, a little more carefully than she usually would. She pulls the bike into the hangar and locks it, locks the shop door behind her, and heads for her apartment.


	3. Chapter 3

Some days just suck, and sometimes those days last into weeks, and there’s nothing to do but grit your teeth and get through them. There’s new census data from Six on Monday, and Rokia runs automatic searches for the girls, for grandma, for permutations of all of their names, and, when that doesn’t work, for kids the right ages with gaps in their records.

That pulls up a pretty long list. Rokia spends an entire night checking, names, what background is there, what’s missing, what can she dig up, sets up more searches for the files she’d need to eliminate everyone on the list, which run while she’s busy working with Demba on a damaged wing structure. When he heads home, she picks up where she left off, reading through files until her eyes burn and blur.

She falls asleep at some point, because she wakes up on the couch when the lights go on in the hangar, guys filing in and getting settled. She pushes herself up to sit, then stands, and her stomach roils but she’s lightheaded and shaky and her eyes won’t focus, and that means she has to go find some food. She shoves the heels of her hands into her eyes until she sees sparks, holds her breath, then blows it out through pursed lips. Right. Breakfast.

She waves vaguely at the guys coming in as she walks across the shop floor to the front door. Nobody comments on the fact she was here all night, again, the fact that she needs a shower and clean clothes and she probably looks like runover shit. There’d been a couple comments, right at the beginning, but they trailed off pretty quick. Now it’s just normal.

The sun outside is insultingly bright, stabbing through her eyeballs while she blinks and tries to get her eyes to adjust. She stays in the shade against the building as she walks, down the street to the little diner that’s managed to keep enough food in stock to stay open. Nobody says much to her here, either, she can just nod at the guy behind the counter, go sit at her usual spot in the corner, and they’ll come over with coffee and tell her what they have.

Eggs, real ones today, pancakes, with tesserae meal instead of white flour, but they’ll do. Margarine, not butter, and cloying sweet syrup that never tastes right. She eats slowly, but she eats it all, and her stomach feels heavy and tight and uneasy but her head clears a little, so it’s fine. She tries to think as she walks back, which jobs are due, what she has to do first and what can wait. When she gets back, she double checks against the orders on her desk and heads for the lathe. Four different craft need four different fuel intake nozzles, and she’d said she’d get them done today, so two of them can get shipped out to Thirteen, where they’re basing the supplier craft for the eastern districts.

It should be Six, the assholes in Thirteen know fuckall about Capitol-built hovercraft, but Six is too insecure, they say. Still. Months after the fighting ended everywhere else, there’s still criminal gangs and drug runners and who the fuck knows, setting fire to shit periodically and shooting people who get in their way.

Sal would have said _I told you so_ , if he was alive. Would’ve been totally unsurprised and still totally disgusted at the way people behaved once the Peacekeepers all left. Magda, Rokia’s heard, is saying all the things Sal would’ve, and more besides.

No place like home. Ha.

It’s back to the census files once that’s done, and three hours after that Rokia’s crossed the last name off the list, a 10-year-old named Allie, short for Allison, as it turns out, who’s staying with her grandmother out near the smelters.

Rokia skims the datapad across the table. It thunks against the wall, stops. The screen goes blank after a minute. Rokia stares at it for a while, then scrubs her hands across her face and looks up.

She should go home. Sleep in a bed. Take a shower. Change clothes.

She manages to make it to the couch, and to take off her boots. Good enough.

 

And of course the next morning Selene decides to walk in as Rokia’s getting the lathe set up. Just strolls across the shop floor like she owns the place, comes over, parks her hip against the machine like it doesn’t matter she’s gonna get grease on a nice pair of jeans, and says hi.

Rokia puts down the chuck key, resists the urge to pull at her clothes as though somehow that’s going to make her look less terrible. “How’s it going?” she asks

Selene shrugs. “It’s alright.” She gives Rokia a funny little half-smile. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to go riding this afternoon, but it looks like what you really need is takeout and beer and really bad TV.”

“Is there any other kind of TV?” Rokia asks. It’s a dodge, but Selene takes it.

“Doubtful,” she says, shrugging. “You got someplace less grimy, or you wanna come by mine?”

Rokia considers. Her place is…fine, whatever, and it’s close, and there won’t be any other people. “I got commandeered an apartment,” she says. “Couple blocks from here.”

“Great,” Selene says. “I’ll stop by around five.”

Rokia looks at the lathe, thinks about her orders list. “Better make it six,” she says.

Selene nods. “Any kinda food in particular?” she asks. “Or beer?”

Rokia comes up blank. “Whatever,” she says.

“Okay,” Selene says. “See you later.”

 

It would be stupid to run home in the middle of the day for clean clothes. Selene would notice, Rokia would feel ridiculous, and there may or may not actually _be_ clean clothes at the apartment, in any case. Still, Rokia thinks about it. And then forgets about the whole thing until Selene walks in as she’s cleaning up parts on the sander and showering herself in yet another layer of metal shavings.

Selene just stands there, waits for Rokia to finish what she’s doing and shut off the machine.

“Ready?” she asks, once it’s quiet enough she doesn’t have to yell.

Rokia looks around. “Lemme grab a couple things from the office,” she says, heads over with the part she’s just finished.

The desk is, as usual, a mess. Paper copies of work orders, blueprints, announcements, scribbled sketches. Rokia leaves all that because fuck knows which bits she should actually work on, but she does take her datapad.

“Okay,” she says, “let’s go.”

The sun’s setting as they leave. Rokia feels disoriented, not sure what time it feels like, or… “What day’s today?” she asks, absently.

“Thursday,” Selene says, amused. “You’re worse than my boss.”

“At what?” Rokia asks.

“Spending so many nights in the office you lose track,” Selene teases.

Rokia laughs. “My apartment’s… you’ll see,” she says. Shrugs.

Selene doesn’t comment when they get to the building, elaborate white facade that’s broken in places to reveal the cheap brick underneath. They take the stairs, because the elevator’s still roped off, up three flights until Rokia unlocks the door and shoves it open.

Selene laughs. Rokia tenses, until she looks over and realizes Selene isn’t making fun of _her_ , really. And it is ridiculous, the elaborate furniture and heavy curtains and plush carpet. Selene walks over to the couch, drops into the corner and puts her feet up on the fabric, smirking. “This is fantastic,” she says, half-sarcastic, and Rokia just shakes her head.

“I need to shower,” she says, days worth of grime suddenly making her feel itchy and gross. “Be right there.”

“No problem,” Selene says, sitting up, reaching into one of the bags and pulling out a six-pack. “I’m just gonna stick these in the fridge.”

Rokia gestures toward the kitchen. “You’ll find it,” she says, and ducks into the bedroom.

There aren’t _clean_ clothes exactly, but there are clean _er_ clothes than the ones she’s wearing now, so Rokia picks the best option and ducks into the bathroom. Which is the best thing about the damn apartment, because the water is _hot_ and comes out in a stream that digs into the knots of muscle in her neck and shoulders so they unwind a little bit. She stands under the water for a while, scrubs off machine oil and grime, even washes her hair, and then feels a little bit guilty for leaving Selene out there waiting, so she gets out.

Selene’s back to sprawling on the couch, but now she’s kicked her shoes off and has a beer in one hand and the TV remote in the other. She looks up when Rokia comes out, laughs a little. “You really don’t have any other clothes, huh?”

Rokia shrugs, her face going hot. “Not like I know where to get any, even if I had time for shopping.”

Selene goes serious. Rokia hadn’t meant to snap like that, but well, it’s been a long week. “Yeah, guess you wouldn’t, not that it’s the same as before anyway,” she says. “I could take you sometime.”

Rokia shrugs, sour taste in her mouth. “Maybe,” she says. “Beer’s in the fridge?” she asks, heading for the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Selene calls after. “And I got everything else here.”

Rokia grabs a beer and heads out, curls into the wide chair in the back corner and takes a drink. Then looks at the TV. “What the fuck is this?” she asks, and Selene’s grin is all teeth.

“This is ‘Get to Know a District,’” she says. “They take people from the Capitol and plop them down someplace, make them do that district’s job.”

Rokia stares at her. “What.”

“It’s District Seven this week,” Selene goes on, “They’re heading out to a lumber camp.”

Rokia looks back at the screen. Two men, two women, in today’s version of Capitol styles, toned down from before but _still._ Gaudy colors and shiny fabric and the women’s boots have three-inch heels. “They’re going to a lumber camp?” Rokia asks, “Seriously?”

Selene nods. Rokia drinks. “I might need something stronger than beer for this,” she says. Selene just laughs, digs in the bag and hands Rokia a box and a fork.

“I got beef stew,” she says. “Everything else looked weird, I swear they’re putting sawdust in the noodles these days.”

Rokia opens it. The smell makes her mouth water. “This is fine,” she says, and digs in.

The Capitolians land at the lumber camp. One of the men tries to pick up a chainsaw and falls over.

Selene gets them more beer.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Rokia says, when one of the women cozies up to one of the bemused-looking Sevens and tries to get him to show her how to swing an axe.

“Oh, baby, please help me, I’ve never lifted anything heavier than a wineglass,” Selene simpers, and Rokia laughs.

By the time the show’s over they’ve finished the beer and Selene has Rokia practically in hysterics with her outrageous imitations.

“Oh shit,” Rokia says, gasping and clutching at her stomach. “You are a fucking menace,” she says. Selene gives her a shit-eating grin.

“I aim to please,” she says. She looks up at the clock. “I should get back,” she says, pulling her shoes on. “But we should do this again sometime.”

“For sure,” Rokia says, standing up and collecting theempty boxes and bottles. “Thanks for bringing all this, what do I owe you?”

Selene shrugs. “Don’t worry about it.”

Rokia scowls. She doesn’t need charity. Selene smiles, shakes her head. “You can get the next one, how’s that?”

“Fine,” Rokia says. She walks Selene to the door, lets her out.

“See you later, Rokia,” Selene calls, as she walks toward the stairs.

“Bye,” Rokia echoes.

She shuts the door, locks it, goes back to the living room. Her datapad is sitting on the side table. She ignores it. Turns the TV back on instead, stretches out on the couch, and falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

The next time Selene comes over, it's actually on a day where Rokia slept, in a bed, for several hours consecutively the night before. It's also the middle of the afternoon, and Rokia has shit to do.

But Selene just saunters over and smirks up at where Rokia’s perched on the scaffolding. “How’s it going?” She asks.

Rokia pulls off her welding mask, drags an arm across her forehead and then grimaces, because that was stupid, now she's probably got gunk all over her face. “Oh, y’know,” she says, shrugs. “Trying to keep some kind of transportation running in this shithole.”

“You got a minute?”

Rokia sighs, starts climbing down until she drops onto the floor next to Selene. “What’s up?” She asks, leaning against the steel pipes, breathing the cooler air down here away from the hot metal.

“You need clothes,” Selene says. “Lets go get you some.”

Rokia's eyebrows go up. “What?”

“C’mon, it'll be fun. You had lunch yet?”

Rokia shakes her head.

“Okay, I'll buy you lunch and you'll humor me by getting some clothes that aren't gonna make me think of that fucking snake pit of a so-called District every time I see you.” It's joking. Mostly.

“I got a lot of work to do…” Rokia says.

Selene rolls her eyes. “When do you not?”

Fair point. “You know where to go?” Rokia asks.

Selene nods. “Yep.”

Rokia looks around and sighs. “Alright, fine,” she says, with bad grace. “Lemme drop off this stuff and wash up a little, I don't think they'll let me in anywhere like this.”

Selene shrugs one shoulder. “They're not so picky. But sure.”

Rokia drops the welding mask in a corner, goes to the little bathroom on the back wall. Yep, she's got black streaks across her whole face, and her hair’s sticking up everywhere but where the band for the mask’s pressed it flat. Lovely.

She does the best she can, and then gives up and goes back out. “Alright, let's get this over with,” she says, and follows Selene out the door.

Selene brings beer along with the sandwiches from the deli. It's warm out at the picnic tables, the sun bright against the stone walls everywhere.

Selene does most of the talking, through lunch and while they finish and walk out into the streets. Stuff about Dash and about jobs they're doing, and her friend Petra in Two, and there's something…odd, about that, beyond even the part where Petra’s the Victor after Rokia because of course Selene knows Victors, Selene knows everybody, seems like. Something odd about “friend,” mostly, and Rokia files that away for future reference.

The place Selene leads her to looks more like a warehouse than the fancy clothes stores downtown. It looks like one inside, too, boxes and pallets stacked in presumably some kind of order but not anything that makes sense to Rokia. And then a guy in Peacekeeper white, no helmet, comes over. Rokia freezes, but Selene just waves.

“Hey, this is my friend Rokia I told you about,” Selene says, and the guy nods. Then he looks Rokia up and down and one corner of his mouth quirks up. “Not sure how much will fit her,” he says, as though Rokia wasn't standing right there. “But the smaller sizes are back there.” He waves with one hand, and Selene just nods and starts walking.

“Your idea of better clothes is fucking Peacekeeper uniforms?” Rokia asks, incredulous. “I'm not fucking wearing that.”

Selene shakes her head. “Nah, not uniforms exactly. There’s training gear and stuff, it's durable.” She glances at Rokia’s stained coveralls. “And not white,” she adds.

Rokia punches her shoulder and glares, but Selene just gives her a sunny smile, until they get to an aisle of palettes with open boxes on either side. Selene rummages in a couple and comes up with what are, fine, basically ordinary work shirts and pants. She tosses stuff to Rokia, who unfolds a pair of pants and looks at them critically. They're gonna be too big, but so is what she's wearing now, she's got a belt. Sleeves can be rolled up as needed. Selene’s found sweats and t-shirts and who knows what all else, comes back with a pile. “See?” She says. “Not so bad.”

Rokia rolls her eyes. “Yes, fine, you win. Can I get back to work now?”

Selene’s smile turns sharp around the edges. “Oh no, this is just work clothes. You need something to go out in, because you're coming out with me and Dash tonight.

“What?!”

Selene takes clothes from Rokia’s hands, puts them in a paper bag she found somewhere, and walks off without bothering to answer. Rokia has to hurry to catch up.

“I can't— You're taking me where?” There's some genuine panic under the astonishment, and Selene seems to take pity.

“Nowhere too fancy,” she says. “They've got good music, it’s small, mostly not full of assholes.” She looks serious for a second. “And hey, if you hate it you can always leave. Just give it a shot though, it'll be fun.”

Rokia takes a deep breath, and nods. “Okay,” she says, a little shaky, and then she shrugs it off. “Lead on, where to next?”

There are some raised eyebrows at the next place, which is an actual store, but they turn into embarrassed glances when Selene glares.

“Here,” Selene says, diving into racks and coming up with jeans that do not look like the ones Rokia is used to wearing at the shop, and ditto on T-shirts that already look mostly worn out.

“These you gotta try on,” Selene says, because she's evil.

“Fine,” Rokia says, taking the lot. “Where?”

Selene leads her over to a dressing room and leaves her there.

And it's fucking bizarre. Rokia's never been clothes shopping like this. At home it was hand me downs and thrift stores, and then after she won…stuff just appeared. She bought new clothes for the girls, the occasional pair of work pants or a shirt here and there, but it wasn’t like this. And none of it was supposed to do anything but keep her warm or protected from flying metal. So this is completely alien.

She pulls a shirt over her head, slides into jeans and looks at herself in the mirror. Yep, that’s her.

“You wanna see?” she calls to Selene, because she doesn’t have a clue what she’s supposed to look like.

“Hell yeah,” Selene says.

So Rokia steps out, and Selene grins. “That’s better,” she says. Cocks her head to one side a little. “D’you like it?”

Rokia shrugs. “Sure?” It’s not like anything she’s worn before, but it’s not Capitol bullshit. It’ll do.

When she comes back out in her own clothes Selene hands her a couple more things and steers her toward the register. “Charge these to the reconstruction fund,” Selene tells the surprised woman behind the counter. “I’ll sign for it.”

The woman looks like she wants to say something, but Selene stares her down and she nods, pulls out a form, and Selene signs. “Thank you for your cooperation,” Selene says, with a smirk. “C’mon Rokia.”

Rokia trails out after her.

 

A shower and a change of clothes later, Selene’s hauling her back out to meet Dash, and Rokia trails in their slipstream through dinner and drinks and into a dim, underground room, where the music’s so loud Rokia feels it in her chest. Selene glances back at Rokia and grins, a little wild, pilots them to the bar.

Selene’s excitement is contagious, especially once she hands Rokia a glass and hops up onto the stool next to her, leans over so their shoulders knock. “See, told you it’d be fun,” she says.

Rokia glances up at Dash, standing behind Selene’s shoulder, raises an eyebrow. He shrugs. Selene, force of nature, just elbows him. She’s practically squirming in her seat, though, and Rokia laughs. “Go dance,” she says, “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?” Selene asks, and Rokia nods. She doesn’t have to push after that, Selene just grabs Dash and moves into the crowd.

Rokia leans back against the bar and sips at her drink, watching. It’s been a long time since she went out like this. Since she won, really. After, well… She downs the rest of her drink and gets another. She’s not thinking about after.

Selene and Dash come back a little later, flushed and happy. Selene raises an eybrow at Rokia, who nods. She’s fine. It’s fun, watching everybody.

“You wanna dance?” Selene asks, mischief in her eyes.

Rokia laughs, startled. “Nah,” she says. Not tonight. Too strange.

They leave not long after, and Rokia gasps when the cold night air hits her skin. Summer’s over, and out here the nights get cold fast. Dash chuckles, but it’s Selene who pulls off her jacket for Rokia to pull on. It’s light, but it blocks the wind, keeps Rokia’s teeth from chattering. “I can get home on my own,” she starts, but Selene rolls her eyes.

“Sure you can,” Selene says, “But this way’s more fun.”

Rokia shrugs. “Alright.”

She gives Selene her jacket back at the door, climbs the stairs, fumbles a bit with her keys before she can get the door open. She pushes it closed, bolts it, leans back against the wood and can’t help but laugh, giggles bubbling up from her chest.

Every time she thinks her life can’t get any weirder.

 

* * *

  

They update the databases again. Peacekeeper records, decrypted and restored, and Rokia knew, she knew about Sal, and the guys from the shop, she knew, she heard, she saw on the TV, but those first days have the texture of nightmare, fear closing her throat, the world in flames, nothing solid under her feet.

It's different, seeing the names on a list with “Deceased—Executed” next to them.

And there's another name, and this one she didn't know, this one punches all the air out of her lungs and she has to put down the datapad because her hands are shaking.

Kadidia Diarra. Age 63. Grandma, not Kadi. “Taken into custody. Current status unknown.”

Rokia tastes bile in the back of her throat. If they found grandma, they might have found the girls, and the fact that their names aren't listed isn't really a comfort.

Her grandfather’s next on the list: Randall Diarra. “Questioned and released. Current status unknown.”

She sits there frozen for who knows how long, staring at nothing, her mind spinning, whining with no load behind it. There's no one here, she left this until the day’s work was finished so no one would know. It's illegal, probably, everyone’s looking for someone, and who is she to think she deserves to know, when so many others don't. Demba has sisters and cousins, back somewhere in Six. Joe’s not trying to find anyone, only because he knows they're dead. Because they broadcast those executions too.

So she would feel guilty, if it wasn't like a paper cut over a gunshot wound.

As is she keeps it to after hours, when the others go home and nobody will ask questions she doesn't want to answer.

Which means when she hauls herself up, forces her brain to let in the clutch so the gears engage, she's alone under the harsh shop lights, nobody to give her a job to do, nobody to tell her anything. That's how she wanted it, she thinks muzzily. It's better, like this. But what she wouldn't give to have Sal call her over and give her a job to do.

He's never going to do that again, and it's her fault. Oh, sure, you can spin it and twist it and justify it, but the plain truth is that she got him killed after he’d kept her alive for eight years. There's not a whole lot you can say about that.

But Rokia’s always managed, always kept going, always figured shit out, and even if there's nothing she can do to make things right, even if there's nobody who needs her anymore, there's still work that needs doing. So she might as well do it.

She starts a list. Spare parts for anything that moves, there's a priority list on the network she can just start working from. Fuel system overhaul on the craft in here, that's a one person job. Structural repairs, that’s better with a crew, that'll have to be normal hours. Avionics, once the craft with the fuel system issue is out of the way. Steering hydraulics, on one of the heavy lift craft.

It's a good list. Long. She knows how to do everything that's on it. It's all important.

She's never going to be worth getting all those people killed, but she might as well try to be worth something.

 

It's two days later when the call comes. Morning, the guys are starting to come in and Rokia is considering the fact that she should probably eat something before she starts getting dizzy again.

She doesn't know the number, but it's from Six. Probably more work.

“Hello, this is Rokia,” she says, preoccupied.

Which is probably why it takes her so long to process what's happening.

“You ungrateful, traitor whore,” a voice snarls. “He gave you everything, _everything_ , and you—you killed him.”

Rokia’s shocked silent, standing stock-still on the hangar floor.

“You don't have anything to say for yourself?” the voice asks.

“Who is this?” Rokia grits out.

Laughter, screeching bitter peals crackling with static. “Don't even know your own family, of course you don't.”

“Magda?”

“That's right, I finally tracked you down, and you're gonna pay.”

“I don't— what—”

“We'll start with you getting me and Jack all set up someplace nice, because they burned down our house. That might cover a few of those times I watched your grubby kids. After that, well I might just rather forget you exist, but we'll see.”

Rokia swallows. “I don't— They froze all the accounts, I don't hardly have anything,” she says, hoarse.

“Well, I'm sure you'll find some way to get it. You always did know how to get money out of people. I know what you are now, everybody knows, and I'm sure people always need whores.”

There isn't anything to say to that. “How am I supposed to send it?” Rokia asks.

“I got friends on the trains still. You take it down to the station and you ask for Sam. He knows you're coming.”

Rokia hears the click as Magda hangs up. She looks down at the phone in her hand, looks over at the office, up at the hovercraft she’d been working on.

Demba’s looking at her funny, but she can't find anything to say to him, or any of them. So she just walks over to the office and shuts the door.

She has cash, a little, stashed here and at home, because old habits die hard. All told it might be enough to pay a month’s rent on the kind of place Magda would demand. Rokia’ll get paid again end of the week, she'll be okay till then on whatever's in the cupboards at home.

She collects what's here, walks to her house. Hesitates, keeps a little back just in case, puts the rest in the envelope from an old work order, and writes “Magda Diarra, District 6” on the front.

It's a long walk to the station, but she’s not going to spend money on a car. Anyway it clears her head, a little, so by the time she gets there she can smile and ask for Sam without too much trouble.

He's a big guy, sullen and hulking. “Yeah, Magda told me you'd be coming,” he says, eyes narrowed. “Didn't expect…” he jerks his chin in her direction.

Rokia's not entirely sure what he means, but she can guess. She shrugs. “Give this to her,” she says. “I counted, so don't take anything.”

“Well ain't you polite,” he smirks. “No more playing the cute little Victor, huh? All that just for show?”

Rokia just shrugs again. Finally he yanks the envelope out of her hand. “Fine. I'll give this to Magda.”

“You do that,” Rokia says, and doesn't wait for him to respond, just walks away.

 

She gets more funny looks when she gets back to the shop. She ignores them, looks around. There's still work to do on the hydraulics, so she crawls into the access panel, away from all of them, and gets to work.

 

They call out as they're leaving, like usual, and she waits until she's heard all the voices leave, the last door slam shut.

Then she crawls out. And stands up too fast, so her vision tunnels and she sways, grabbing at the edge of the metal for support and cutting her hand.

Shit.

She goes into the office. There's still a few ration bars stashed there, so she grabs one, heads over to the idiot coffee machine and manages to get a cup of something passable.

By the time she's finished both she feels a little steadier. She looks around.

In the harsh light, tired as she is, she could almost think it's Sal’s place. Sal's place the way she saw it as a kid, new and strange and full of possibilities. Not like later, when it was the one real place, the one constant, the one thing she knew would be there, more home than any place she slept.

Sidi used to joke she'd cut her way out of the womb with a torch and never put it down. Moussa used to say if you turned Rokia upside down and shook her, half her weight in scrap and tools would fall out of her pockets. Matt used to race her from school to get the best jobs. Sara—

Fuck this. She's got work to do.

Except when she goes back in she's so tired she stares stupidly at a cracked seal and can't figure out what to do about it.

Fine. She pulls her head out, back into the back cargo bay. She'll just close her eyes for a minute. Just nap. The benches along the sides are comfortable enough.

 

A snake crawls up her leg, slides over her chest and raises its head. When it opens its mouth it hisses “traitor, ungrateful whore,” and when it rears back to strike—

Rokia wakes up in the middle of falling off the bench, her heart racing, out of breath and terrified and sobbing. Her chest heaves as she gasps, shuddering breaths slowing toward normal as she manages to sit up.

Fuck.

She gets up on shaky lags, walks out to get a cup of water. She gulps down three cups and then has to fight down nausea, closing her eyes and trying to breathe.

“Shit,” she whispers, dragging a hand down her face. She doesn't want to go back in there. Which is stupid, nightmares aren't real, there's nothing to be afraid of in there, but she walks around to the other side anyway, goes into the office to make part files for whatever spare is next on the list.

 

She's still there when Selene comes in.

“Hey,” she says, leaning against the doorframe.

Rokia jumps. “Fuck, I didn't hear you come in,” she says, once she can breathe again.

Normally Selene would laugh at her, because that's what they do, they laugh at each other. But today Selene seems surprisingly subdued.

“What're you up to tonight?” she asks, “do you want to come get some food?”

Rokia shakes her head before Selene’s finished the question. She doesn't have the money and she isn't about to go out where people will see her. “Not today, I've got work to do,” she says, lifting the datapad a little.

Selene just looks at her, until Rokia looks away. “Are you okay?” Selene asks, reluctantly.

“Sure,” Rokia says, glancing back over toward Selene. “I just gotta get this done.”

Selene pauses a second before she replies. “Okay,” she says. “Another time, then.”

Rokia nods without looking up. “Yeah, sure,” she says.

Selene leaves.

 

When Rokia's phone rings again, her heart races and her throat closes, until she sees the number. It’s from District Two. And that’s just confusing.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Rokia, it's Lyme.”

What? “Oh, hi, what can I do for you?” Rokia asks. Lyme’s name is on a lot of transport requests, food orders and whatever else someone's starving Two of to make an idiotic point. So Rokia assumes that's what this is about.

“Just checking in,thought you might want a break. Offer’s still open, you can come stay with me for a bit, get out of the city.”

Rokia blinks. “I'm supposed to take a vacation?” she asks, incredulous. “You know how much work I've got to do?”

“Sure, but a change of scenery’s always nice. Recharge your batteries.”

What the fuck? “Yeah, no, I'm good here,” Rokia says. “Thanks though,” she adds, belatedly.

“Sure thing,” Lyme says. “See you around.”

The line goes dead and Rokia stares at her phone.

Well that was bizarre.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Rokia hasn’t heard much about the Victors, since the consolidation. No news is good news, really. She gets the occasional message from Beetee about work stuff, Phillips checks in once in a while, and that’s plenty. It’s not like she knew most of them anyway, so she’s not exactly thinking much about it.

Which is why it’s so surprising when Lyme calls to check in. Rokia doesn't think too hard about that either, until Lyme fucking walks into the shop on one of the days she couldn't stand to leave overnight so she's a mess, slept in clothes and machine oil on her face and trying to do too many things at once.

“How's it going?” Lyme asks, faked nonchalance that's almost believable except that Rokia knows better.

“Oh, fine,” Rokia gives as good as she gets. “Trying to keep some semblance of national transportation up and running, you know.”

Lyme does know, Rokia knows she knows, because it's her name on the transport requests from Two most of the time. Her name on the demands for information when someone fucks with the schedule, pulls rank somewhere to get their district bumped up and someone else's bumped down, up and down the line until nobody wants to stand up for the district they all love to hate lately.

It's idiotic, and Rokia tries to lock down the scheduling system but it's a losing effort when so many people think they have a right to make the calls.

Lyme snorts, and Rokia blinks fast to clear her head. She's got too much on her mind, she's getting distracted again.

“Come get some lunch,” Lyme says, and the way she says it it isn't really a question.

Rokia looks at the clock. “It's almost 3,” she says.

Lyme shrugs. “Have you eaten yet?”

Rokia shrugs right back, trying to remember what she had for breakfast, when that even was.

“Come on,” Lyme says, and turns to leave, and for a second Rokia wants to plant her feet and cross her arms and refuse on principle, but eventually she follows.

They go to the sandwich stand down the street, because it isn't like there's much open in the bombed out city. Rokia eats mechanically, because it's probably a good idea but she doesn't feel hungry, not really. “You really should come to Two,” Lyme says, between bites. “We've got the Village repaired, you could stay with me, take a break.”

Rokia laughs, harsh in her own ears. “Are you kidding?” She asks, “I have a backlog of shit that's supposed to be ready to fly last week, there's no way I can just leave.”

Lyme gives her a hard look, and Rokia looks right back. Two can play at that game. It's Lyme that looks away first, runs a hand through her hair and stands up. “Okay,” she says, balling up her garbage and tossing it into the trash. Goes in perfectly, of course, just another example of the kind of unconscious skill all the Twos had, good without even having to try. “See you around, Rokia,” Lyme finishes, and walks away.

Rokia's annoyed when she gets back to the shop. She's not even sure why, just that everything anybody does is pissing her off, so she disappears into the corner office she commandeered with a list of measurements and starts drawing up part files for the CNC.

By the time she's ready to start the machine, it's late enough everyone has left, and she loads up the files and watches it start cutting, then goes over to the craft in the middle of the hangar and starts checking it over.

She's on her third cup of coffee and fifth welded patch job and the CNC is still running when Lyme comes in. Nobody else is here yet, but when Lyme opens the door there's sunlight streaming in, so it's early but not early enough she can really give Lyme shit for it.

Lyme gives her a long look, up and down. “You look like shit,” she says, solemn.

“Didn't think anybody gave a fuck if I looked pretty anymore,” Rokia snaps back.

Lyme almost flinches at that. “When's the last time you slept in a bed?” she asks. “For that matter, when's the last time you slept, period?”

Rokia doesn't answer. For one thing, she'd have to do the math to make sure, for another she's certain Lyme wouldn't like the answer.

Lyme lets the silence stretch long enough to be uncomfortable. “Yeah,” she says, drawling, “see, that's not a good answer. You need to come with me, just for a couple days.” Her voice gets less sarcastic, a little nicer. “You're gonna burn out, kid, and then you won't be any use to anybody.”

As if on cue, the CNC beeps to tell her it's done. She walks over and pulls out the fuel pump nozzle, spins it around to check for flaws, but it's fine.

Going that direction takes her to the office, and she sits, looks at the list scrawled on a receipt for scrap aluminum. None of it is actually critical. It could wait a couple days, probably. Her head throbs, as though she needed a reminder she's been wearing a welding mask for going on 12 hours, and she sets it down on the desk beside her. Fuck it. Looks like she's going to District Two.

 

Rokia hasn’t really paid much attention to the rebuilding and re-zoning and everything else. She’s got her job to do, just gotta hope other people are doing theirs.

And apparently they are, or trying to. All the rubble’s gone by now, most of the half-destroyed buildings demolished, a few new ones going up. Feels a little more like a city and a little less like a war zone. Which is probably a good thing.

And now she’s getting distracted and has to hurry to keep up with Lyme. Who looks over at her with the kind of expression Rokia uses for malfunctioning machinery, probing and careful and concerned. Rokia hitches her duffel onto her shoulder and looks away.

“Let me take that,” Lyme says, reaching, and Rokia’s instinct is to jerk away but that’s stupid, this is Lyme. She’s not going to steal the damn thing.

So Rokia hands it over and shoves her hands in her jacket pockets. It’s cold, and that’s the other reason she’s been crashing in her office instead of going home lately, it’s hard to care enough about beds to want to go out in this, especially when it’s not like she sleeps that well anyway. If she’s going to crash for a couple hours and toss and turn for a couple more and then give up and go to work, she can do that anywhere.

She shivers, and Lyme gives her that look again. “We should find you a real coat,” Lyme says, like she’s talking about calling up Victor Affairs and telling them to send one, instead of—fuck knows who’d be selling winter coats or where the money’d come from to buy one.

Rokia shrugs. When Lyme keeps glancing over she coughs a little, says, “Yeah, prob’ly, but I got no clue where to get one.”

Lyme shrugs one shoulder. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” she says. “Someone’ll have something in Two.”

Okay. Sure.

The train station’s weird, all fancy still for Victor trains and Tribute trains and Capitol folks going on vacations, but it’s mostly cargo moving through now, the passenger tracks took less damage and anyone who needs to get between districts can hitch a ride with the cargo. Rokia heads for the front of the train to see who’s driving, and when she sees the locomotive code she smiles.

“C’mon,” she says, ducking into the first car, and then through to the crew car.

“Hey, Joe!” she calls out, and Joe looks up from the banks of indicators, startled until he sees her.

“Lyme, this is the best damn crew in Panem,” she says, because it’s true. “Guys, this is Lyme.”

There’s some mumbling along the lines of “pleased to meet you,” and Rokia finds herself a seat in back. Lyme stands, leaning against the wall and watching.

“How’s it going?” Rokia asks, and Joe waves someone else to the controls and comes over.

He shakes his head. “Lotta work to do,” he says, “but we’re making progress.”

“Hey Rokia,” Tom calls over from the other side of the car. “It true they’re running hovercraft for cargo out to north Seven?”

Rokia rolls her eyes, lets her head drop back against the wall. “Yes,” she groans.

Tom laughs, cracks a window and lights a cigarette. “Sounds like that’s going well,” he says.

“Gimme one of those and I’ll tell you about it,” Rokia says, and Tom tosses her the pack and the lighter.

“You know those things are going for crazy prices,” Tom says, once she’s got hers lit.

Rokia blows smoke out into the slipstream and shrugs. “Good thing you guys are the ones movin’ em so you can just snag a few.”

Joe laughs, and Tom looks affronted. “Hey now,” he starts, but Joe just shakes his head.

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Joe says, “I know what’s up, but it’s fine.”

Tom relaxes a little, sighs. “Shit’s crazy,” he says.

Rokia laughs at that, coughs, swallows. “Yeah that’s the understatement of the year,” she says. “You gotta have some good stories, c’mon.”

Tom thinks, starts talking about opening the track through Ten, guys herding cattle on horses, going swimming in the water for the animals, the kind of fun the crews can get up to now there’s nobody keeping them confined to the loading docks.

Rokia relaxes. It’s comfortable here, and fuck, she’s tired. Tired like she should sleep, yeah, but tired of the fucking endless stream of demands and requests and priority whatever and tired of people asking for things. She’s half-asleep when Joe pulls Lyme back toward the passenger cars, and he must’ve stopped between cars because she can just make out his voice, even though the only word that rises loud enough to make out is “shit.” It’s a little amusing.

It doesn’t take long to get to District Two. Rokia almost wishes it were longer, wishes she could go with them all the way to Six, sleep in the bunkroom like she used to on her Victor trips. But no, Six is too dangerous and even Joe told her she shouldn’t go back just yet, so when they get to District Two she hauls herself upright and awake and follows Lyme out.

Claudius is there with a car, so must’ve been not everything got destroyed here.

Lyme opens the back door, tosses her duffel onto the seat, and Rokia climbs in after.

She barely knows Claudius, just that he’s Lyme’s Victor and he doesn’t come to the Capitol much. He looks back at her in the rearview mirror, says “Hi Rokia,” and starts the car.

“Hi, Claudius,” she echoes back, and sits back to watch as they climb up into the mountains.

It’s fucking freezing when they get out, and Rokia’s clamping her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering by the time they get inside.

“There’s soup in the fridge,” Claudius says, pulling off his shoes and walking through to the kitchen.

Rokia stops just inside, looks around. It’s nice, but her house in Six was nice. Her house in Six, though, was exactly like all the others in the Village, Capitol furniture that was fine, was better than fine, but—well. This house has personality, the furniture is sturdy and looks comfortable more than it looks nice.

She must be tired, she’s standing here thinking about fucking furniture instead of…doing something. She drops her duffel and pulls at her boot laces. She hadn’t bothered changing when they picked up her stuff, and she hadn’t even thought about it until she considers the fact she’s probably going to leave machine oil and metal shavings and who knows what else any place she sits down.

She steps out of her boots, and wow, nice to be out of those finally.

“Can I take your jacket?” Lyme asks, and Rokia laughs a little.

“I should probably shower and change clothes before you let me in the house,” she says, “I’m pretty dirty.”

Lyme shrugs. “I don’t mind,” she says, and Rokia thinks she actually means it. And it’s easier to just agree so she does, follows Lyme into the kitchen. Claudius is heating up soup, Lyme finds a loaf of bread and cuts slices, and Rokia just stands there because she doesn’t know what else to do. Finally Lyme glances over.

“You can go sit on the couch if you want,” Lyme says, “We’ll bring this in a minute.”

Rokia goes, because it’s the easiest thing.

The couch is huge and soft and cozy and Rokia curls in the corner and she’s trying not to fall asleep when they come in with food. She takes the bowl Lyme gives her, stares at it for a minute. It’s the size of her head. But okay. Lyme sits at the other end, Claudius takes a chair on the other side of the room, and Lyme tosses him a remote. “Put on one of those nature shows you like,” Lyme says.

It’s relaxing, some guy with a calm voice talking about forests, and Rokia’s never thought much about forests other than places she’s got to get fucking cargo hovercraft out to in Seven, but they’re kinda pretty.

She can’t eat more than half of what’s in her bowl. She leans over to set it on the low table. “Sorry,” she says, “not that hungry I guess.”

“It’s fine,” Lyme says, just leaves the bowl there.

She should get up, do…something. But it’s comfortable, especially when Lyme tosses her a blanket, and she’s tired, and…

 

She’s trapped, crushed under concrete, can’t breathe, can’t get out, can’t find the girls, can’t move, can’t— Rokia jerks awake, scrambles out from under the blanket she’s tangled in, sits up and—

“Rokia, you’re okay, you’re safe.”

Rokia stares. Lyme. Lyme, District Two, Lyme’s house, she’s fine, the war’s over, she’s not trapped, nobody’s keeping her anywhere she doesn’t want to be—but the girls are gone, she can’t go home, Phillips is in Nine, Mom’s dead and Sal’s dead and everything’s a mess and she needs to _do_ something.

Rokia scrubs her hands over her face, fists them in her hair and pulls. Inhale. Exhale.

“Do you have a set of sockets?” she asks, dropping her hands and looking at Lyme.

Lyme blinks. “Yeah, should be in the garage. Why?”

“Claudius’s brakes were making noise on the way in, they need adjusting.”

Claudius looks startled. “They were?”

“Yeah, you’re losing efficiency in the regenerative braking system.”

He raises one eyebrow. “She’s worse than the Threes,” he says, looking at Lyme.

Lyme glares at him, but Rokia just stifles a laugh. “I am _way better_ than the Threes, Beetee doesn’t know shit about regenerative braking systems.” Wiress would. Wiress is dead though, so it doesn’t count. She knows better than Beetee, and anyway bitching about Threes is a fun pastime anytime.

Claudius’ other eyebrow joins the first one. Lyme gives her a flat look. “Yeah, alright,” she says, getting up. Rokia hops up to follow her, half-giddy with the flood of unnecessary adrenaline.

Lyme’s garage is a lot less full of random crap than Rokia’s used to, but there’s a decent set of tools in a metal box in the corner. Claudius pulls the car in, and then heads home while Lyme waits in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest.

Rokia ignores her.

There’s no blocks to put the car on, but that’s okay. There’s the emergency jack, and Rokia’s used to squeezing into tight spaces. She’s pretty sure she could fix the noise with a couple minor tweaks to the brake shoes, but really she might as well take the cylinders apart just to make sure. No point sacrificing efficiency because she got lazy.

And then her phone rings, and someone wants to know when the cargo craft in her shop are going to be ready to fly to Five to get parts and people to go to Three to fix the fertilizers-and-explosives plant, and someone _else_ calls because actually they think someone’s paying too much attention to the industrial districts when Eleven hasn’t had new equipment delivered for greenhouses, and that is nothing like Rokia’s job but everyone wants to call in favors, and it takes five different calls to five different departments to sort out that yes, Eleven needs materials, but also yes, Three has to be the priority because if they can’t get fertilizer to Nine by spring apparently there’s not going to be anything to _eat_ next year. And the stuff in the shop will be done in a couple days, and—Rokia hesitates—no it can't be any sooner.

And then once she’s disassembled and cleaned and reassembled the rear brakes, she might as well double check the front ones, and she’s got the disks and the calipers and the rest of the brake assembly sitting out in neat rows when Lyme comes in.

Or, at least, that’s when Rokia notices Lyme, standing in the doorway watching, hands in her pockets.

“Hi, Lyme,” Rokia says, picking up a rag and looking over the disk for nonexistent scratches.

“You about done in here?” Lyme asks. “It’s late.”

There’s lights in here, why would that matter? “I gotta finish this,” Rokia says, gesturing to the parts lined up.

“Okay,” Lyme says, goes back inside.

Rokia’s still checking everything when Lyme comes back with one of the kitchen chairs, which she sets down near the door and sits in. And watches.

Rokia ignores her. Whatever the fuck game Lyme’s playing, Rokia’s not interested.

But there’s really only so long a brake job can take, so pretty soon Rokia’s crawling out and looking for the button for the garage door.

Which is behind Lyme’s head, of fucking course.

Rokia walks over, reaches past Lyme, hits the button and heads back to the car, trying to ignore the blast of cold air that rushes in. Fuck, it got colder.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Lyme asks, standing up.

Rokia stops with her hand on the door. “To test the brakes.”

Lyme raises an eyebrow. “You really think you should be driving right now?”

Rokia blinks. “What? I’m fine, you think I’ve been drinking in here?”

Lyme sighs. “Alright, but I’m coming along.”

Rokia shrugs. Whatever. She slides in and starts the car while Lyme gets in on the other side.

It’s a good car. Solid, not fancy, durable. Figures.

With the brakes adjusted it’s more responsive on the turns, she speeds up down the switchbacks toward the station just to see, zigzags through a neighborhood, then heads back up before Lyme decides she’s trying to escape. She pulls into the garage and turns the car off, climbs out. When she gets inside she heads for the kitchen.

“Where d’you keep your coffee?” she asks, turning to glance at Lyme.

“No way, kiddo,” Lyme says, walking past, standing in front of Rokia just a little closer than is comfortable. “Bedtime.”

Rokia steps back. It’s annoying how far up she has to look. “What? It’s basically morning.”

Lyme just stands there. Okay, Rokia can play that game too.

“Look, kid, I can give you something for the nightmares,” Lyme says.

Rokia looks down. “I’m fine,” she says. She wishes it sounded more convincing.

Lyme snorts. “Sure you are,” she says. “Look, it’s not a big deal—I took this stuff, Claudius took it, everybody took it. It’s not going to—whatever Phillips has you paranoid about. It’s fine.”

Rokia scowls, crosses her arms. Thinks about Mom, passed out on the couch with a baby screaming next to her. Thinks about Phillips’ fury the first time Linsea offered her stim pills at the Games.

Well. She caved on that one, in the end.

And she’s got nobody to look out for now.

She swallows. “Fine,” she says, still staring at the ground.

Lyme nods, Rokia sees out of the corner of her eye, moving past Rokia and up the stairs.

Rokia’s still standing there when Lyme comes back. “C’mon,” Lyme says, holds out a glass, a single round white pill.

Rokia glances up. Lyme holds her gaze, steady, and Rokia sighs. Tosses the pill back, sips at the water, hands the glass back.

Lyme shakes her head. “Drink it all,” she says, and there’s a hard edge in there underneath that Rokia pays attention to, so she drains the glass before handing it back again. Lyme nods, takes it. “Go sit on the couch,” she says. “I’ll be right there.”

There’s no reason not to do it, so Rokia does.

Lyme comes back, pulls a blanket off the back of the couch and hands it to Rokia, goes to sit in the chair. Rokia only just has time to worry about how groggy she’s feeling before she’s asleep.


End file.
